One of Us
by Youshi Semenjyu
Summary: Sadly though, what began as a small murder became an obsession, a want of blood and a thirst for the kill that was never satisfied. (4+2, AU, languange, angst, gore) FINISHED!!
1. Prologue - The Good Doctor

One of Us 

**By DuoLordOfDeath**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing, so there. **

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[1] Queer Street- A place dubbed so in old London where the poor and destitute resided. And yes, I did research on the attire of the times and the state of the poorhouses and asylums. This is as accurate to history as I can get. =)

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In each of us there are two natures. If this primitive duality of man, good and evil, can be housed in separate identities, life will be relived of all that is unbearable. It is the curse of mankind that these polar twins should be constantly struggling...

                                                                                                            - Henry Jekyll,  _"Jekyll and Hyde: Act One"_

**~*Prologue- The Good Doctor*~**

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Dr. Winner was a kind and generous man; so generous that, for long hours into the night, he would stay with his patients until they felt they could continue alone; regarding their own welfare much over his own.  So kind that; in return for his long hours of service to the needy and mentally ill; he asked nothing but a thank you; and sometimes not even that was necessary. He felt that there were many physicians that cared for the rich and upper-class; but there were hardly none for the poverty-stricken and mentally ill; mainly because they were considered the terrible dregs of society that were to be undermined and overlooked. Such was the way in 1847; especially in cities such as London; where Dr. Winner resided. But soon; London no longer would be his home; for tomorrow; he was heading for New York City in the United States. There had been a terrible cholera epidemic that swept through; and the American doctors were running short. When he heard that it was especially hitting the disadvantaged slums; he immediately jumped to their aid.

As the young doctor stepped from his office for the last time; he pulled his overcoat closer around his body; for it was raining; and the cold night breeze was ripping through his clothing like knives. Shivering; he stepped down the steep steps and onto the puddle-ridden cobblestone streets. In the distance; the sounds of carriage wheels and a horse's whinny sounded over the shouts of the bobbies. There had been a mysterious murder recently nearby; there were no traces of who had committed the atrocity. The murderer had been very clever and skilled in his precision; the body wasn't mangled; but neatly cut at key points in the body to allow for maximum drainage of blood. Dr. Winner had even known the victim; it had been a young fellow by the name of Zechs Merquise, and he had been the good doctor's rival at medical school. It chilled him to think that the slaughterer was so slick and hard to catch; and also so near to him and his sister. He only prayed for her safety while he was in America.

He turned away from the direction of the police; they had blocked off the quickest route to his home; so he had to travel down a dank area of London that was commonly known as "Queer Street". [1] Only the destitute and lower class resided there; it was a dark and foreboding place where only the desperate went. The doctor glanced around and could see paupers hurrying for any kind of shelter that was readily available. Sometimes; this was merely a small, sopping wet shred of newsprint; long forgotten and nearly shredded. He felt such sympathy for them; but he knew sadly that there was nothing that he was able to do. He lowered his head and passed quickly underneath the dim streetlamps; his form indiscernible to any onlooker. Water sloshed angrily about his newly polished shoes as he trudged onward; lightening flashing above in the cloudy; smoke filled sky. 

Then as he was turning a corner that led him back onto the main street that he usually met on his way home; he saw a sight that nearly tore his heart into shreds.  Three small children, 2 young boys and a slightly older girl, scurried across the street in front of him and cowered in fear of the storm and his oncoming form. They were terribly soiled; and their frail bodies were barely covered by shards of what may have been clothing sometime ago. There was absolute fear in their small eyes; and their disheveled; dirty hair kept dripping relentlessly into their faces. Slowly, he approached them and knelt next to them gently. He could read the frightened expression in their small faces; but when they saw him remove his large; warm overcoat and wrap it around them gently; the trepidation in their faces quickly changed to gratitude.

"Do not worry…I do believe that there are some crumpets in that left pocket over there…help yourself; and you need not worry about returning the coat to me. You need it far more than I."

"Thank you, sir…" the girl said softly; the gratitude evident in her small voice. He shook his head. 

"You needn't call me 'sir', child…Quatre will do just fine. Good luck to you all." With a small bow of his head; he turned and continued to walk down the street in only his clothing. He was amazingly cold; and the rain ran down his face in torrents; but he didn't stop smiling. He knew he had done the proper and good thing by helping those children; nothing could sway him otherwise. But he still didn't slow his pace; he had no wish to catch a fever before his journey to America. His boots splattered through the chilly water as he turned the corner and saw his flat come into view under the faint lamplight. Hurrying a bit more, he quickened his pace and began to run; knowing that he was an unstately mess and that his older sister wouldn't believe her eyes when she beheld him in such disarray. Hastily, he ran up the granite steps and stepped inside the door, shivering and wet. He closed the door shut before any more rain could fall onto the wooden floor. He took a few breaths, trying to warm himself a bit, when his sister Iria came in and stopped dead in her tracks. She was a tall, stately woman; obviously older than her brother. She made a great deal of taking care of him; she was the only family he had. Their parents had died; his mother first in childbirth, and his father only a few years ago.

"Quatre Winner! What on Earth are you doing? You're a mess! And where is your coat? Haven't you enough brains to realize that it's cold and raining outside?" Quatre looked up to face his irate sister with a sheepish smile and sighed, still quivering with cold. 

"Yes, I know, but there was this small group of children with barely any clothing on their poor backs, so I gave them my coat and the crumpets that were in the pocket. They needed it more than I."

Iria smiled and shook her head as she removed a towel from a nearby linen closet and walked over to him. "You're too kind for your own good, Quatre," she said as she helped him to dry off. He chuckled lightly and waved her away slightly; yawning a bit as he did so.

"There's not enough kindness in the world, Iria, so I do what I can. That's why I'm going to America tomorrow; to help those in need. Speaking of which, I need to go change into my pajamas. I have a long voyage ahead of me, and I do not need to be late tomorrow morning."

Iria nodded and smiled. "I had the maid start you a fire before you arrived; that way you'd be able to get to sleep in a hurry. Good night now, Quatre."

Quatre smiled down at her tiredly as he made his way up the tall cherrywood stairwell; cold and anticipating the warmth of his bedside fire. He gently opened his door and lit the candle that sat on his night table, offering a bit more light than the fire would allow. He stepped over to his armoire and opened it, pulling out a long nightdress. He sat the candle nearby and stripped himself of his sodden jacket and waistcoat, then pulled off his trousers and laid them over a basket beside the armoire so that they would be picked up and washed. After pulling on his nightwear, he took the candle and set it upon his bedside table before sliding under the covers of his bed. He was thankful that his sister had dried most of his hair; he just hoped that she learned not to be so finicky. As he blew out the candle and began to fall asleep, he heard the shouts of the police and more horse whinnies down upon the streets of London. He only prayed that they would find the murderer quickly; or he would find only long, sleepless nights ahead of him in New York.

He awoke the next morning to a clear sky; the sun shining through his slightly open drapes. He shivered slightly and sat up tiredly, the warmth of the fire long died and now resting in the smoldering coals in his fireplace. He quickly got dressed and made his way downstairs; feeling strangely tired although he had slept a good long slumber. He met Iria in their kitchen; she had brought his belongings downstairs and set them by the door so he would be ready to leave on time. She smiled at him sadly as they both sat down to eat their breakfast.

"I hope you are well in America. Those Yankees are quite rude, I hear. And trust no one; you have no idea whom you might meet on the streets," she instructed him thoughtfully; worry obvious in her eyes. He smiled at her reassuringly.

"You needn't worry, Iria. I'll be fine; I promise I won't let anything happen to me. I'll write you as often as I can; telling you all the news that happens to me. I promise that I won't leave a thing out."

Iria smiled a bit. "Alright…but if I don't get a letter from you soon, I'm going to come over myself and track you down with the hounds!"

Quatre chuckled a bit and stood, his breakfast finished. "Alright, I understand; Iria. I must bid you farewell now, though. I fear that I may be late if I do not hurry to the port. Thankfully, our flat isn't that far from the Thames; so I should be able to walk there quickly." He stepped over and kissed his sister lightly on the cheek before striding lightly into the foyer; where his spare coat and luggage sat.  Swiftly, he slid his coat on over his jacket and waistcoat, and picked up his luggage. He had already had his larger luggage taken to the port the day before so that he wouldn't have to worry about carrying it; he opted to walk the short distance.

As he stepped outside into the brisk London air, more shouts of the police echoed down the street above the whinny of horses and clatter of carriage wheels. Curious, Quatre walked towards Queer Street, where the sounds were coming from. As he turned the corner; he came across the small crowd of people gathered around one spot, all murmuring to each other in a hushed whisper. 

"Excuse me, what's all this?" he asked lightly, stepping forward. A young woman turned her head to face him and shook her head in disgrace. "Oh, Dr. Winner; it's another murder. This time; it were three small children, it was. All that was near them was a bloodied overcoat and a few crumbs in the pockets. No identification was left in the coat. And the murderer was very precise; there be no traces of him left now!"

Quatre froze in his spot; stunned. The three children he had helped…why had they been the target of such a crime? As he numbly walked back down the main street and left the scene behind, his thoughts wandered. 

"First Zechs…and then those children…I just hope that neither mean that this murderer is after me…but thankfully, I am leaving London…he can't easily follow me across the ocean…"


	2. Chapter One

~*Chapter One*~ user Normal user 1 1 2001-10-30T01:11:00Z 2001-10-30T01:12:00Z 2 1752 9988 83 19 12265 9.2720 4.5 pt 2 2 

**~*Chapter One*~**

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                "Look! There she be, Seamus! The Statue of Liberty! Oi…she be quite a sight…"

                "Aye, that she be, Evelyn…that she be…"

                Quatre looked out towards Ellis Island as the nearby Irish couple spoke; just like them; he knew not what awaited him here; especially in the slums of this large and unpredictable city. It had been a long way here, and Quatre was quite thankful to be able to set foot on solid earth once again. The sea breeze ruffled through his hair as the ship took to port, and after registration as a temporary citizen of America, he took a ferry to the mainland. 

                He glanced around at the large assortment of people all over the shores, speaking in all sorts of languages. Beside him sat his trunk of belongings and his suitcase, and he was amazed at how crowded with people the port was. He began forward, carrying his trunk and suitcase beside him. Carriages passed him by on the streets as he tried to make his way through the teeming crowds; people were pushing about him every way he went without even an apology.

                "Hum…Iria had been quite right when she said that these Yankees were rude. One can't even walk down a footpath without having his toes rung on!" he said to himself, barely able to hear his own words as he passed. Along the narrow dusty streets, people were doing business with street vendors in many different languages, and carts passed by with such amazing speed that many feared to be trampled by them as they passed. The British doctor kept his eyes open for any sight of a temporary transport; he had no fond wish of walking through this strange city with his luggage on his back. He stopped briefly and glanced around though the throngs of people; when he found a carriage letting a young woman in a fine dress off onto the sidewalk. With surprising efficiency, Quatre pressed his way though the people and passed squawking chicken carts until he reached his destination. He stopped and dropped his trunk at his feet beside him; then spoke up in a loud, unmistakable voice.

                "Excuse me, Good sir! I am in need of assistance!" he began, promptly fetching the driver's attention. 

                "What d'ya need, sir?" came the reply; a refreshingly polite reply in comparison to what the doctor had recently been exposed to. The young man was obviously Irish; there could be no mistaking it. Quatre smiled and continued.

                "I need a ride to St. Mary's Sanctuary for the Poor and Destitute. Could you supply me with adequate transportation? I do not wish to hinder you if you have other things to do." The young doctor laid a hand upon his belongings, as if to signify his need of a ride.

                The equally young driver nodded quickly and smiled. "Sure, sir, just hop right in. I'll get ye where ye need t'be."

                With a gracious thank you, Quatre hoisted his trunk and other belongings into the cart, then stepped up himself, taking a seat in the soft leather seats. The young man turned to him as he sat down and cleared his throat.                

                "Now, where was it that ye said y'needed t'be?" he asked slightly.

                "St. Mary's Sanctuary for the Poor and Destitute. I am to be the new doctor there; I came to aid in the cholera outbreak."

                "Aye, I understand ye now, sir. The cholera got me sis and bro. Me mom and father survived with only me. I hope ye can help us all."

                As they began to move, Quatre took a breath. "I'm very regretful about your family. I will do all I can to assist."

                After a few moments of silence, the driver spoke up again. "Ye may be a bit surprised when you see th' place ye be headin' to. It be a rough, unfriendly place. Quite unlike what ye upper-class socials be accustomed to, I bet."

                "Of that I can be quite sure of, young man. This entire town has been exactly what London was not. How can this place be any different?"

                The Irish lad said nothing; but they came to a stop thereafter, and he turned to the young doctor with an unsure gleam in his eyes. "We be arrived, sir. The price be 2 dollars and 47 cents."

                Quatre looked slightly taken aback. "I'm dreadfully sorry…I only have pounds, shillings, and pence. Would you accept this?" The doctor held out some of his funds to the driver, who smiled brightly. "I'm sure that it's more that the amount you asked for, but I don't mind letting you keep it."

                "Aye, that be adequate! Me family take any kind of money that we can; we need to desperately." The young man said with a jovial gleam in his green eyes. The doctor nodded warmly and opened his door, putting his feet lightly on the small black iron steps. As soon his polished shoes hit the dirty cobblestone below, a detestable scent hit his nose. He recoiled slightly and glanced back and down the street upon which he stood. His blood curdled at the sight. 

                All up and down the filthy streets, people sat in rags, dirty and disheveled. Rats, flies, and the scent of death was rampant, and even the people seemed desolate and removed. The cries of hungry children and babies echoed down the deathly quiet streets, and no one seemed to care of worry; as though it was only routine. No light of any kind of a smile was upon anyone's face, and the stench of human waste invaded his nostrils. Quickly, he covered his face with a handkerchief and retrieved his trunk and other things. 

                "Thank you again, lad. Farewell," Quatre mumbled from underneath his cloth, then turned to face his destination; a tall, cramped looking building with a rotting wooden door. Overhead hung a dilapidated sign with crudely painted letters across it that read, "St. Mary's Sanctuary for the Poor and Destitute". Determined yet unsure, he stepped forward and opened the rotten door. As he did so, several cockroaches scuttled out from the inside, as though they had been imprisoned inside. Quatre quickly raised his left foot in disgust, then entered the decrepit building.

                Regrettably, Quatre removed the cloth from his nose prematurely, and nearly wretched at the smell inside the poorhouse. If the stench was appalling outside, then it was tenfold over inside the building. He could feel the slight jump of fleas upon his lower legs as they went over his shoes, and he could smell the rat feces in the heavy air. He glanced around at the few people who sat in the large, sparsely furnished room; they sat on ripped up, grungy chairs, and another couple sat on the floor, one with a newspaper in hand. He seemed to be reading to the young woman next to him quite intently. He stepped forward gingerly and closed the door behind him. He could tell that they were on the brink of starvation; and he felt penitent that he did not have anything to offer them as nourishment. 

                About that time, a tall, imposing looking young man strode purposely over to Quatre, a malicious gleam in his eyes. He took a glance at the fine apparel that the young doctor wore and sneered at him disdainfully. "My name's Mueller; I run this God-forsaken institution. Now, what the Hell does a damn rich bastard like you need in this shithole?"

                Quatre looked up at him with a stately gaze and crossed his arms condescendingly, meeting Mueller's contemptuous gaze with his own aloof look and took a breath. "Mueller, did you say it was? Well, I've got one thing to ask you. Are all Yankee Americans as bloody rude as you? If so, then I do believe that I will have a hard time adjusting to this atmosphere. Well, in all actuality, I would have a hard time adjusting to this place even if you Americans were as refined as God himself, because frankly, I can't see how any human being could stand living in such horrendous conditions."

                Mueller looked a bit taken aback at this; he had never been stood up to like this before, and certainly not by someone he'd never even met before. He regarded the young British doctor for a few seconds, not really sure of what to make of this cheeky fellow.

                "Now, if you'll kindly let me in….I am Doctor Quatre Winner from London. I was sent here to aid in the cholera epidemic...but having a large brute like yourself in my way is making it quite difficult to walk."

                "Oh, you're that guy. I heard about you coming over here." Mueller grumbled incoherently as he let Quatre enter, not paying mind to the cloth that Quatre again placed to his face to keep out the noxious stench. "Your room is up this way. Follow me." 

                Irritated, Quatre followed the lumbering Mueller up a narrow, crumbling stairwell; marveling at how it was still stable enough to hold people.  After a few flights and many rats scuttling underneath their feet as they stepped, Mueller stopped in front of a rotting oak door and shoved it open, ignoring the termites that fell from the rusted hinges. 

                "Here's your room. If you need anything, get it yourself." And with that, the lumbering head of the poorhouse made his way back down the stairs, grumbling inarticulately.

                Tentatively, Quatre stepped inside and could hardly believe that there was even a bed in this room. Not only was there a bed, but there was a dilapidated chest of drawers, a cracked, foggy mirror, and an old clouded window that even opened to show in a bit of sunlight as well. He quickly decided that, by the look of the state of the room; he'd rather leave his belongings inside the trunk that they came in. He set it against the wall and turned back to leave; he felt that he should get himself acquainted with the residents of this home; it may help him become more accustomed with his new surroundings.

                As he emerged from the ramshackle stairwell; a young woman in her late 20's met him with a smile. Her cornflower eyes were framed with golden eyebrows and long flowing blond hair. Her dress was of Irish make, although it was tattered and dirty. Behind her, a younger woman in her late teens was sitting on a chair sewing a small doll in her lap.

                "Hello, newcomer. Me name be Dorothy; and this be me younger sister Catherine. Ye d'not need to fret over Mueller; I rather enjoyed seein' someone stand up t' that lumberin' idiot o' a man." Dorothy accented this with a hearty chuckle, and with a charming smile she led him over to meet her sister, who had laid her sewing down and turned to face him with a sweet smile. Her short light brown hair shook gently around her ears as she looked towards him. 

                "Oh, g'day, sir. I was quite amused when you told off that uncouth Mueller. He's been the same way towards us all ever since Dorothy and I came here 4 years ago. It were right after our father and brother died of the cholera. We couldn't find any work. It was because of the Potato Famine that we had to leave our homeland. And now we find ourselves 'ere. Some day we'd hope t' get out o' 'ere, but it don't see very likely." Catherine sighed softly, and Quatre laid a hand on her shoulder.

                "I promise that I will try to make conditions here better as best I can, miss." At this, Quatre turned his attention to the young Chinese couple that sat upon the floor. One was a young man who wore a pair of beaten up bifocals over his onyx eyes, and he seemed to be reading to the young woman that sat next to him out of the newspaper; seemingly about the slowly uprising of the womens' rights advocates. Quietly and with a bit of curiosity, he leaned over towards Dorothy and gave a her a curious look. "Who are they?"

                Dorothy smiled a bit. "Them be the Chang family, Wufei and Merian. They came all the way from Shanghai for a better life in America, just as us; but because of their race, they were put in here; seen as inferior. She can speak English, but not read it, unlike Wufei, who is brilliant. He is fluent in it, and reads to her ev'ry day from th' paper. Mighty kind o' him if ye ask me."

                Quatre nodded and continued to glance around when he saw a strange door across the room from him. It had grungy bars inset into the small window, and a small sound was coming from behind it. 

                "That door seems quite unusual for a poorhouse. What exactly is it for? Surely not to keep the poor," Quatre stated, looking at it with worry. Catherine looked at him and shook her head, her voice filled with indifference.

                "Oh no, Doctor. That door to be for the poor. That door leads to the asylum, it does."


	3. Chapter Two

~* Chapter Two*~ user Normal user 1 0 2001-11-01T21:57:00Z 2001-11-01T21:58:00Z 1 1 1 9.2720 4.5 pt 2 2 

**~* Chapter Two*~**

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                The young doctor's eyes widened with appall as these offhand words; it was as though having the mentally desolate behind a barred door in a poorhouse was routine. Quickly he stood; his mouth open in shock. 

                "You mean to inform me that these damn Americans keep their poor in the same facilities as their mentally insane? They keep them behind a sullied locked door with barely any light leaking in; then let them suffer along with those destitute who have to live with their wretched cries day in and day out? It's cruel punishment for both parties!" He cried, his hands shaking slightly with outrage. With a quick pivot of his heel, Quatre turned and made his way purposely over towards the grungy door. Without pretense, he turned the rusty doorknob and flung the door open, revealing the dark, wet, and narrow passage within.

                Quatre nearly reeled back in disgust at the unearthly stench that floated from the dank air within; it was the scent of insanity. He stepped in, no rag over his nose and mouth, and felt a bit lightheaded from the odor; it was a mixture of blood, vomit, and urine; and, Quatre was sure; many other bodily fluids. The screams of the madmen and women within were like banshees; and they threw themselves toward the light with great force, their broken bodies hitting the steel bars that mercilessly kept them in their tiny cages and forcing them to fall back again. Water stood beneath Quatre's own polished shoes; and these men and women had to sleep and live in this daily. Many were grossly disfigured from cleaving their skin off layer by layer; it was a painful and futile way that they had tried to rid themselves of their inhumanly filth.  

                "Oh…Great God Above…if this is not hell…then what is?" Quatre said softly; his voice echoing down the corridor as he turned. A glimmer of light caught his eyes; it was coming from the last cell down this hall. No others were down this passageway, and the screams had died down slightly, as had the light that was coming from the poorhouse. No windows lit up this entire place; it was plunged in a hopeless and deadly darkness. "What inhumane ways are these…"

                "Oi, it always 'as been this way; Alex never really gives a damn for us. We be lucky if we even get a scrap o' food on a daily basis 'ere. We always be treated like foul beasts, kept in dark cages as though we be too unfit for God's sacred eyes," came a calm Irish voice from the far cell where the dim light was originating. The voice sounded sane and educated; if a bit unnerving in its serenity. Intrigued at this, Quatre slowly made his way down the passage towards the cell, his footsteps echoing off of the stonewalls like water droplets in a pond. The slight rustle of a page came from the cell as he neared; it was as though the owner of the voice was reading a book of some sort. When Quatre finally came across his addresser, he was quite surprised. 

                Sitting in the wet floor of the dimly lit cell was a young man of about the same age as he; very disheveled…yet composed; as though he was the noble son of a great Irish king. His calm cobalt eyes were lowered, fixated on a tattered but readable copy of the Lord's Word. A long unkempt braid fell down his back; the end of it dangling in a small pool of dank water, and a mess of untidy bangs fell into his thin, boyish face. His body was obviously cold; only a few measly shards of cloth covered his lean, slightly muscular body. He was silent; then slowly, he raised his eyes to look at Quatre directly, his face as disturbingly calm as his voice had been. "So who might ye be? Me name be Duo Maxwell. I've been a "patient" in 'ere for th' past 3 years…Alex used t' use me to talk t' some o' th' others because I can speak German and French…but not anymore. He now just keeps me 'ere in this end cell, forgotten." At Quatre's appalled look, Duo shook his head slightly. "Ah, I might get some food occasionally, but I'd be pretty lucky."

                Quatre knelt down to Duo's eye level and looked at him seriously, a gentle glimmer in his eyes. "My name is Dr. Quatre Winner…I came here from London to aid in the cholera attacks on the poor and mentally ill." Quatre paused, regarding the young man before him. "If you speak German and French…and read the bible…why were you put in this place? You have no symptoms of insanity…"

                Duo looked at him with a wry look. "They 'ad one reason. By throwing me in 'ere, there would be one less Irishman on the streets." The Irishman smiled dryly and chuckled dryly, the first sign of emotion on his roguish face. "Ye be a doctor, eh? Hmm…come t' stop me onslaught, I presume…" He accentuated this remark with another sardonic chuckle, then continued. "You may see a bit o' morbidity in me jokes…it and my calmness come from me long stay 'ere. But I mean no 'arm; rest assured."

                 A sound of a door being flung open in the far end of the asylum suddenly rang out, startling Quatre slightly. He turned to face the direction from which the heavy footfalls were coming, then came face to face with a smaller man than Mueller, but powerfully built. He was obviously a bit inebriated; a pint of ale was being toted in one hand while a long rifle was held in the other, slung against his shoulder carelessly. He stumbled a bit towards Quatre, a mad look in his eyes.

                "Who the hell are you and why are ya in here? Ya have no business in here with these filthy heathens! They only need to be taught a lesson with the butt of my trusty rifle!" he said, his deep voice slurred with alcohol. Quatre eyed him with a stern gaze and stood, his posture straight and distinguished. He crossed his arms over his chest, and spoke, his voice full of calm anger.

                "As any fool can see, I am doing what any humane doctor might try to do. I am trying to help these ostensible "heathens" into returning to their former state, where they can become civilized, well-mannered citizens of society again. But with the way they're being treated here, it's a wonder many of them haven't killed themselves!"

                The older man suddenly got a wild look about his eyes as he heard Quatre's regal and derogatory statement, and begin to step profoundly forward, dropping his gun and ale to his sides and bringing about his fists. "Why you little-I'll show you to smart-talk me again!" And with that, he came upon Quatre, arms outstretched and ready to take the young British doctor down swiftly. But the doctor had other plans. As soon as he was in reaching distance, Quatre outstretched his hands and quickly and efficiently applied firm pressure to his opponent's pressure points about the neck and forehead. He fell to Quatre's feet, unconscious and downed quite effectively.

                "Wow…Well, I must say, Doctor…you're th' first person to ever have downed Alex or Mueller. It takes a bit o' muscle to put those two ruffians away, even for a short time. I'm impressed." Duo smiled as Quatre dusted himself lightly, then turned back to face his companion. He thought he saw a bit of admiration in the Irishman's cobalt eyes, then he spoke again. "Aye, I do believe that you may be th' one who could turn this place around."

                Quatre nodded slightly and thanked him softly. "Thank you very much…I swear that I will try to do the very best I can."


	4. Chapter Three

~*Chapter Three*~ user Normal user 1 1 2001-11-06T05:39:00Z 2001-11-06T05:40:00Z 1 1 1 9.2720 4.5 pt 2 2 

**~*Chapter Three*~**

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                The sun was brutal as it beat down through the tall, grimy towers of downtown New York as Quatre hurried through the streets, a cloth tied about his nose and mouth to keep the disease from his face. He carried a small but efficient satchel of medical supplies in his hands as he walked down the dusty streets; his destination wasn't much farther. He turned a corner and stepped past a large warning sign that hung overhead that read, "Danger! Quarantined Area! Authorized Personnel Only!"

                Along the streets stood the family members of the ill; standing outside their home with grave looks on their faces. Quatre saw a few doctors along the streets, rushing around with identical masks over their own faces. One such doctor approached Quatre and started walking alongside him.  

                "Excuse me, sir, but do you have clearance to be in here?" he said, stopping Quatre as he walked. 

                "Yes, doctor. I'm Dr. Winner from London; I was called in from Britain by your president to aid you. Now, if you would kindly show me to a home that I may treat, I will help in any way I can." 

                "Oh, now I understand! Come with me then, Dr. Winner." And with that, both doctors took off running; very unorthodoxly down the grimy streets; past crying women and happily oblivious children. As they ran, the stench of death and decay became worse, as no one was brave enough to come and clear away the dead for fear of catching the potentially lethal disease. Finally, the American doctor stopped in front of a more refined house than the others; at the very edge of the slums. 

                "Up there is a young woman, German I believe. She just contracted the virus a few days ago after her husband died of it. She speaks no English; her husband was her translator. Her name is Hilde Schbeiker.  Can you speak German, Doctor?" The American asked breathlessly, looking at him with scrutiny. Quatre froze; he knew not a word of German…but there was one person who did…

                "I'll return as soon as possible, Doctor. I know someone who can help me."

                Quatre's hurried footsteps echoed off the bare whitewash walls as he stepped inside the poorhouse, and breathlessly ran through the foreboding door into insanity. He threw aside all thoughts of refinery as he ran; his mind occupied with thoughts of helping those he had come to aid.

                "ALEX!" He cried out loudly, his voice echoing effectively off of the wet granite walls as he stopped inside the dark corridor, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light. "Alex, I want to have a few words with you!" With a heaving chest, he strode proudly over towards the keeper, who was leaning against a wall at the far end of the corridor before the turn. 

                "Yea, what do you want, damn Brit? I've got more important things to do that to fuck around with you!"

                Unabashed by Alex's crude comments, Quatre glared with great purpose into his adversary's contemptuous eyes, and moved not one muscle in his arms. "You will release Duo Maxwell for the day. If you do not comply to my wishes; I will charge you with voluntarily letting an innocent die; and you will receive the blame because of your own stupidity."

                "Ah, why would I have to release that hell stricken loon for you? Why do you need him so badly? Do you want to take him somewhere private and fuck him? I'm sure he'd enjoy that REAL well! Fuck him right up the-"

                Alex was unable to finish his sentence, as the enraged doctor's fist pummeled into his nose at full force. Quatre could feel the bones in his nose smash satisfyingly as he struck, and blood seeped slowly out from the "jailer's" nostrils as he sank to the wet floor for the second time in two days, victim to Quatre's wonderful sense of timing. Anger seethed in the doctor's usually calm, caring eyes as he knelt and retrieved the keys from Alex's belt.

                "How do you enjoy my diplomacy, Alex? I do believe that it serves me quite well," Quatre said grittily as he passed by the keeper's unconscious form and towards Duo's cell. Duo was smiling ironically at the current events and stood, dusting himself off.

                "G'day, Doctor. I'm not too sure 'bout what Alex thinks o' your diplomacy, but I be getting rather fond o' it, I am." He said levelly, the same knowing smile placed upon his face as Quatre unlocked his cell. "Now, what d'ya need me for? I'd be glad t' help in any way I can."

                "There is a woman who was stricken with cholera, and she speaks only German. Due to the profound fact that I speak not a word of German, I came to the conclusion that…you were my only hope."

                Duo's eyes suddenly lit up with a light that seemed uncharacteristic as these words escaped Quatre's lips; as though a long forgotten memory was being stirred.

                "Lead th way, doctor. I shall follow where ye lead."

                "Vater Righteous im Himmel, schützen bitte unsere Seelen, während wir durch diese harten Versuche und Ihre divine Energie durchlaufen, helfen uns, sie aus lebendigem zu bilde," came Duo's low tenor as he gently held the German woman's hand, his head bowed in soft prayer as he soothed the frightened and ill woman. She had her eyes closed and was trembling as Quatre worked swiftly; but said the gentle prayer along with him. 

                Quatre took a few slight seconds to regard his aide with a fond smile; he had loaned Duo a few articles of clothing so that he wouldn't appear so frightening to his patients; some might ask why an asylum shut-in was there. Where rags had been were now a fine British overcoat and trousers, and his hair was now neatly braided and not as bedraggled. His roughened hands were covered with white gloves, and his face was neatly washed. Where a destitute prisoner had been now was a fine gentleman; a shadow of Duo's former years before New York.

                "Duo, tell her that this injection, " Quatre began gently as he held up a thin syringe, "will help to aid her body in fighting off the cholera. Luckily, we caught her's soon enough to save her; the disease was in the early stages." The doctor looked down at her with a warm, reassuring smile, and although she was still trembling, the caring presence of the two men seemed somewhat comforting. As Duo leaned down and told her this, the doctor slid the needle gently into her upper arm and injected the small amount of serum into her bloodstream. "There you are, Ms. Schbeiker. You should be fine within a few days. Godspeed to you, madam."

                Duo relayed this to her in soft German and then stood after Quatre, and pulled her blankets back up over her as she lay in bed. She nodded tiredly up at her two saviors and smiled. 

                "Danke..." she said sweetly in her light voice, then drifted off to sleep, her dark eyes closing into a long awaited rest from the pains. Duo turned to Quatre as they walked out and smiled, putting a hand on his shoulder.

                "She said, "Thank you…""

                Quatre shook his head. "I should've told her that there as no need for that…" He smiled at his comrade and sighed lightly. "There is more that we can help…"

                The moonlight was barely visible through the smoky skies of New York as the doctor and the former theologian wandered back towards the poorhouse, and Duo's demeanor was diminishing slightly as they rounded the last dark corner and the dilapidated yet familiar building where they were living. His smile was now turned back into a thin, calm line, like he had been when Quatre had first laid eyes upon him. The wind blew gently through the Irishman's long braid, tousling it a bit as they stopped in front of the poorhouse. 

                "Duo…I wish that you did not have to come back to this hell...I truly do…"           

                At Quatre's gentle words, Duo looked up towards the stars in the sky and sighed. "I was "Satan's Man", Quatre…Called so because o' me damned sexuality…" He looked quickly back to Quatre for any signs of contempt, but he found none in those warm marine orbs. "I know not to be ashamed of who I be, but they treat me like I be a Hellspawn…" He sighed a heavy sigh, and locked gazes with the doctor. "But I want t' thank ye, doctor…thank ye for lettin' me see th' sky again-"

                Duo's soliloquy was cut short by the surprising and gentle press of the doctor's lips against his own in an assured caress. There was no pretense to this action; it was a true emotion; full to the brim with meaning that Quatre wanted to imply towards him. Quatre hadn't told anyone, fearing the same fate that Duo had been made to endure for his own self. Not even his own sister knew; she might have shunned him. But here was one person that knew his inner torment; someone who felt the same fear. The blond felt a few uncharacteristic tears in his eyes as he pulled away and looked at Duo with an unashamed gleam in his eyes.             

                "You're right…we shouldn't be ashamed…" he said softly. Duo regarded him with a somewhat surprised look, then broke into a true smile; the first Quatre had ever witnessed on his roguish face. It as an amazingly refreshing image, one that Dr. Winner would never be able to erase from his mind.

                Unbeknownst to the two that stood outside the rotting door; two pairs of spiteful, watching eyes had witnessed everything. And neither Alex nor Mueller was very pleased with what they had seen.

                "So, I see that Satan has won both of you, has he now?" came the nasty voice of Mueller as the two stepped through the doorway. Both Duo and Quatre had an appearance of those who had been among death; there was no sign of any kind of romance. But they knew; all too well. "Perhaps we can perform an exorcism, eh Alex?"

                Duo spat at Mueller's feet. "Oi, what d'ye know about Satan and God? What makes ye think that ye be worthy enough to have God's judgment? His judgment awaits us after this life; and I await the time when he judges ye!"

                A pair of hands suddenly grabbed at Duo's neck and yanked him away from Quatre's side; an enraged Alex lifting him above the ground without mercy. "How dare you speak to us like that, you damned ass fucker! I'll beat Satan out of you!!"

                Quatre watched in abject appall and disgust as Alex raised a mighty fist and began to pummel Duo viciously, all the while screaming terrible profanities and insults at him. He stepped quickly forward, but he was struck in the stomach roughly by a mallet like fist, knocking the wind from his lungs. He doubled over in surprise; not expecting this sudden movement from the heavier man. He glared up at Mueller contemptuously and took a labored breath.

                "Let him go; you bastard…damn it, let him go now!" the doctor wheezed, looking up quickly to see the change in Duo's calm demeanor. Instead of a monotonous gleam in his eyes, there was terror and immense pain wavering in those fathomless cobalt eyes, and his body quickly was becoming bruised; but his face was contorted in absolute pain; and he had blood starting to seep from his nose, mouth, and his left ear. "Let him go, you bastards! You sadistic bastards!"

                Mueller looked down at the kneeling doctor with a look of pure scorn and kicked at him in the chest, causing him to drop to all fours. He was grinning malevolently, and laughed. "That must be Satan talking. Sadly, I can't do anything to you while under the service of the President. But just wait…one of these days I'll get both of you cock suckers. Just wait. No get on up to your room, now; or I'll make sure you sleep on this floor!"

                Quatre staggered to his feet and looked at Duo as Alex dragged him into the doorway of the asylum and closed it. He didn't hear the sound of a whip as he was walking up the steps; but he vowed that he would repay Duo for his mistake of kissing him the next morning. But he couldn't so easily wipe away the torture that Alex and Mueller had done. He sighed as he stepped inside his chamber painfully and lay across his bed wearily, falling into slumber.

                "Forgive me, Duo…"


	5. Chapter Four

~*Chapter Four*~ user Normal user 1 0 2001-11-08T22:53:00Z 2001-11-08T22:53:00Z 1 1266 7220 60 14 8866 9.2720 4.5 pt 2 2 

**~*Chapter Four*~**

****

                The sound of children screaming outside awoke Quatre the next morning, but it was quickly covered by the sound of rushed footsteps running from the poorhouse and down the street. He quickly rose and glances out of his window onto the damp streets below. It had rained the previous night, and the doctor watched as Mueller frantically rushed down the streets, his boots sloshing madly in the puddles. Quatre's ribs ached at the sight of the keeper; he could still feel the gruff man's rigid boot ramming itself painfully into his chest. With a groan, he stood from his bed, wondering why Mueller had been in such a hurry. Then, his mind reverted to the thoughts of Duo and the severe beatings; and he felt a sudden, almost foreign surge to rush down to the asylum and check on him. He quickly pulled out a pair of trousers and a white shirt; pulling them on with surprising efficiency. He pried on his polished shoes over his feet; then stood, reaching for his medical bag. But oddly, he found it open; and a few items were strewn about the dresser top. 

                "Odd…I left this on the floor closed last night…who could've moved it?" he said to himself curiously; infinitely inquisitive as to why his supplies were strewn about. But he had no time to ponder it at the present; he had much heavier things to worry about; such as the extent of Duo's injuries. 

                As the doctor scurried down the stone steps, he could feel his ribs ache with even greater pain than before. He finalized that he probably had a few bruised or cracked ribs; but this was the least of his worries. As he passed through the poorhouse, he saw Dorothy and Catherine peering cautiously into the open door of the asylum, and Merian and Wufei were behind them, also leering into the opening. 

                "What happened, ladies? Gentlemen?" Quatre asked inquiringly, stepped between them to gain access to the foul-smelling room. Dorothy looked at him with the same frightened look the young woman in London had and took a shuddered breath.

                "It be a murder, Doctor. Alex be murdered; and Mueller went off t' fetch th' police," she said in a whisper, then turned her face back to the dark room. Quatre looked struck. 

                "Murdered?" He said quickly, then stepped inside, hurrying up to where the keeper had fallen. Immediately, the acrid, bitter scent of blood invaded his nostrils, but he forced himself not to wretch and kneeled next to the body. What he found frightened him intensely.

                The body had been cleanly and precisely cut; there were hardly any marks on the body except where seemingly pints upon pints of blood had spilled onto the stone floor. Upon closer inspection, Quatre drew in a horrified breath. This murder was the same…just like Zechs; just like the children…not one thing was different. The slits had been made at certain points on the body to allow for maximum blood loss, and the killer had first gone for the throat; so the victim would not make any sort of sound when they met their death. There was a look of pure and utter shock and terror on the dead man's pale, rigid face; a gruesome and bloody death mask. Quatre shuddered at the sight.

                "What does he want…what can this murderer want from me?" he whispered. His question was answered with an agonized and slow groan from down the hall, which brought Quatre up to his feet. He would let the police deal with this grizzly scene; he wanted nothing more than to confirm Duo's well being. As he neared the darkened cell, he heard a bit of movement, then a mumble.

                "Routine…" As he stepped up to the cell door, Quatre regarded Duo with horrified shock. His right eye was swollen slightly and darkened; and blood seeped freely from the corner of his mouth and his nose. He was wearing rags upon his body again; but these were much more sparse than before. He was sitting precariously against the wall; shivering slightly and looking quite reserved and silent. His face was pale and gaunt; and all over his exposed skin were patches of varying bruises. With even more horror, the doctor observed the numerous slash marks on his back; slashes from a leather whip. The door had been left ajar; the murderer must've come after Alex had finished his brutal exorcism. The British doctor rushed inside and knelt at Duo's side, throwing open his satchel. 

                "Oh, Duo, I'm so sorry…this wouldn't have happened had I not kissed you…" Quatre felt ashamed for causing Duo so much pain as he pulled out a cloth and a vial of alcohol. He dampened the cloth with the antiseptic liquid; then neared Duo; gazing into the Irishman's cobalt eyes. "This may sting a bit…"     

                Duo chuckled gruffly. "After last night…that alcohol would be considered a tickle, it would…" He leaned his head back against the cold stonewall as Quatre pressed the soothing cloth against his bruised cheek and bloodied lips and sighed, relieved by the kind doctor's gentle touch. Quatre was a bit demoralized by Duo's unperturbed tone at the alcohol; and sighed, looking quite humiliated.

                Suddenly, a firm yet placid hand took Quatre's chin and made him look up, meeting cobalt with marine. Then, without pretense, Duo kissed him strongly; full of passion and intensity that betrayed his beaten appearance. He pulled away after a few moments and looked at the doctor with true conviction; regarding the confused yet loving eyes of Quatre.              

                "No shame, Quatre Winner…" Duo whispered, wiping away a bit of his own blood from the blond's lips with great care. Pain was evident in his eyes with each movement; but it seemed that his aches were trivial compared to the mortified expression that the doctor had borne on his aristocratic features. "No shame…"

                Quatre watched him with stunned silence as his patient lowered his arm and leaned back again; letting him continue with the treatment. Duo was unaccustomed to such a gentle and soft touch; especially from a doctor. All the doctors that had handled him had been brutal and rough due to the fact that he was "insane" and couldn't feel pain. A small smile crept onto his usually stoic expression as the British man's hands glided over his wounds, tending them wonderfully.

                From the far end of the asylum, a pair of curt footsteps resounded on the wet granite floor, followed by a more lumbering, pounding footfall. There were soft murmurs and the sound of tearing paper, then a soft but firm voice rang out.

                "Excuse me, Mr. Mueller, but this is official police business; I'm afraid you will have to leave the scene.  Heero here will escort you out. Thank you."

                A few sounds of unsure grumblings were heard from Mueller, then the iron door slammed shut, and the footsteps halted shortly thereafter. A soft grunt of annoyance from the one deemed Heero sounded, and the soft whispers continued. They weren't; however; soft enough to evade neither Quatre nor Duo's hearing.

                "What do you make of this, Trowa? This isn't your average homicide; after all. The person who committed this act must be someone with knowledge of the human bloodstream. He knew exactly where to cut that would cause the least bit of resistance and the most grotesque death. Note here the way he slashed the neck and the wrists…"

                "Yes, I see that, but who could have gotten into here in the dead of the night without awaking any of the people in there? It doesn't make sense, Heero. And Mueller; hulking idiot that he is; has no idea who it might've been."

                "I see what you mean. Perhaps we should ask the women and men in there; perhaps they know anything."

                "Good idea. Call for the morgue and have them take away this body. We don't want to alarm any more people than we have to."

                After the two men left, Quatre shook his head at Duo's confused expression, then wiped away a bit of blood from his forehead. "Alex was murdered last night; as you most likely gathered. Practically five feet away from where you are now. Did you see…who did it?"

                Duo shook his head slowly, trying to not bring on an unwanted headache and sighed. "No…I be unconscious right up until ye came in here…I 'ave no idea who might've done it…"

                Quatre put his materials back into his satchel after wrapping a bandage around his forehead and sighed a bit.

                "I'll be back tonight; I've got more work in the Quarantine today. Please try to rest yourself; and sleep if you can."

            The Irishman nodded in agreement slightly and watched as his savior rose to his feet and stepped out of the door. Quatre turned briefly back before his took his leave and smiled back down at the bedraggled Irish youth with admiration unmatched and murmured a last goodbye to him before stepping away; his footsteps splashing lightly in the pools of bloody water. He still wondered though…who was it that wanted his life so badly that they would trail him across the Atlantic…


	6. Chapter Five

**~*Chapter 5*~**

            A few days had passed without incident or mouth from Mueller; and Quatre took this with slight worry. If he were holding anything back; it would soon explode into a rage of pain and blood. He had come in from the Quarantine after an exceedingly long and harrowing day, and found it peculiar that Mueller wasn't busying himself around the poorhouse as he had done for the past week and a half since Alex's repugnant demise. As he stepped in; Wufei walked up to him with a strange and suspicious gleam in his eyes.

                "Something's amiss, Doctor," the Chinese man began, his gaze glancing around for something. "Mueller has been in the asylum all day; and there have been some strange sounds coming from within there. I suggest you look inside; I fear for your friend."

                Quatre nodded, looking slight troubled yet chary. "Thanks, Wufei. I'll go look now." The doctor stepped forward and vigilantly opened the door, cringing as the door creaked loudly, victim to years without proper oil and care. He stepped hesitantly through the dark room, ignoring the heavy reeking air, and turned the corner, expecting to find the bane of the poorhouse looming swaggeringly over Duo's usually candlelit cell. But strangely, there was only candlelight and the occasional turn of a page. Not wanting to disturb his friend, Quatre turned on his heel and made his way back out, a bit apprehensive. 

                "Was he in there, doctor?" Wufei asked, Merian right behind him, a hand on his slender shoulder. The doctor looked at the Chinese couple and shook his head slightly to deter their qualms.  

                "No, it was silent; I saw nothing out of the ordinary…if you see anything, make note of it and tell me in the morning; I'll make sure to check up on it."

                "Are you bedding down, Doctor?"

                Quatre nodded. "I'm afraid so; I've had a rather trying day. But not to worry, I shall be up quite early tomorrow. Now you all get some rest, all right? It'll do you all some good."

                "Thank ye for yer caring, Doctor. We all greatly appreciate the trouble ye've gone though fer us," Dorothy said calmly, smiling at him with warmth. Quatre nodded.

                "It's no trouble at all, Miss Catalonia. Good night now." Quatre nodded to the Irishwoman, then turned, making his way up the deteriorating stone steps. Mice squealed as they ran under his feet, but, being used to the repulsing spectacle, he walked right on past. When he came to his room, he found the door strangely ajar. Apprehensively, he stepped inside; and as soon as he was in, he felt a sharp whistle of wind fly dangerously close to his ear. He jumped and turned to face the one who had thrown the projectile. Sitting on his bed was none other…than Mueller, looking smug and cocky. Quatre narrowed his eyes, not showing the adrenaline that was filling his veins. He turned curtly and pulled the projectile, his finely sharpened scalpel, from the rotting doorframe and turned back, wondering if this man could've been the one who had killed Alex. He kept his safe distance from the man, but went over to his dresser and grabbed a cloth and a small vial of ether to cleanse his tools.

                "Why did you come in here; no medical school would see you fit to hold a scalpel, so why in Hell would you think that I would? Now, please state your business and be out of my sight; I have no wish to toil with the bloody likes of you." Quatre's voice was full of disdainful venom; he would not disguise his hatred of this man. Mueller merely chuckled and stood, making his way over to the doctor until he was looking straight down at him, his eyes also full of disparagement.

                "You'd better watch yourself, Queer Ass Pretty Boy," Mueller said silkily, watching the rage in Quatre's eyes deepen, "I'm watching you…and I don't want to see you, or that fucked up bitch of yours doing anything that I consider…" He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Unsaintly."

                Quatre's fist came up and smashed into the taller man's face, splattering his nose across his features. The larger man reeled back, and Quatre began to shout at him, ignoring that dull pain in his knuckles.  Mueller, surprised by this, reeled back on his heels, seeing black and blue until his wobbly gaze came back to focus somewhat on the enraged doctor.

                "UNSAINTLY?!" Quatre screamed, stomping towards him in a furious wrath, "Who are you to talk about being "Unsaintly"?! Go look down at your charges and tell me about being saintly!?" He threw open his trunk and held an old bible in his hand. "I know what He said in this Book…now, go show me your version of "saintly"…let's see how you measure up with God himself…" His eyes narrowed again, determined to win this argument.

                Mueller said nothing, only continued with his smug smirk. "Have a good night's sleep, Dr. Winner…Let's hope that the murderer who got Alex doesn't get you…" And he left, the smug look still playing on his face as he closed the door. Quatre stared at the door with tapering eyes, his mind whirling with thoughts. He slid into the his bed after changing and stared up at the ceiling, the sounds of the city falling like rain into his room. As he drifted into an uneasy slumber, he couldn't shake the feeling that the murderer was near…so very near to him... 

                All was dark; the poorhouse had been asleep for many hours now; and silently, his feet, the murderer's feet, silently began to step lithely across the cold stone floor through the gloom, a sharpened instrument of death in his hand. He passed by the slumbering Chinese couple; they would live through the night…they were not his principle targets. Catherine slept soundly a few feet from him as he passed, her head resting on a ratty but soft pillow upon the floor. She was also not to fall into the eternal slumber; not tonight.              

                A small stirring caught this man's keen ears, and he whirled around just in time to see Dorothy open her eyes and inhale sharply, ready to scream out in terror. But she never got the chance. He was on her as soon as her mouth had opened, and he pressed his hand roughly over her mouth. 

                "Perhaps if you had not awakened, you might have lived to see tomorrow…" he said to her smoothly and calmly. Then, without pretense, he violently raked the weapon across her throat, silencing her as her own blood leaked into her lungs and dripped from the long, ragged gash in her neck. Blood spattered onto the assassin's hands, though they were gloved, and he watched as Dorothy Catalonia fell back to her bed, which was now soaked in crimson. He regarded the spectacle of her gory death with silent satisfaction, then continued on his way, letting the loose drops of blood fall into the floor. His true victim lay ahead…behind the barred door.

                Slowly, he opened the door, making sure to slip a few globules of oil into the rusty hinges beforehand. He would go unseen and unheard this night of red. He slipped like a cat into the asylum, his footsteps lightly stepping through the small puddles; puddles that would soon run scarlet with the river of life. He could hear his victim's voice, brash and cruel as he spoke to his least favorite inmate; the one that lay just around the corner in the very last cell. A dim flicker of candlelight gave the slayer a good glimpse of what he was here to accomplish; he knew none of the insane persons here would be able to describe the killer to the police. He was safe from their clutches.

                He turned the last corner and faced his prey with an arrogant smile, his eyes gleamed with lethal fires. The lumbering man turned from his verbal tormenting to face his visitor and paled visibly in the dim light; taking a step back. His fear kept him silent; unable to speak.

                "Good evening, Mueller…" the murderer said morbidly, raising the blood covered dagger to glance at him. "After I killed your associate, Alex…I wondered if…you'd care to join him."

                A weakened gasp escaped from Mueller's throat; which only made the kill even more pleasant. The assassin stepped forward toward the keeper purposely, watching the man's horrified reactions with gruesome glee. "I shall be glad to silence your mouth for the Good Doctor!" The murderer shouted with anger, then leapt at the helpless man, ramming the weapon deep into his neck. Blood spurted out from the the death wound, and Mueller could only mumble wordlessly as his slaughterer twisted the dagger deeper into his gullet, then ripped it out suddenly, the strings of his blood drenched vocal cords hanging limply upon the jagged blade. The murderer regarded his handiwork for a moment, and flung the severed entrails into a nearby cell, nearly knocking over a lit candle in the process. 

                "Hmm…" he contemplated, watching as Mueller grew paler and paler with each splash of blood at the killer's feet. "I think I can do better than this." He launched an attack again, slashing the serrated weapon across his victim's chest and groin. Blood flew from every wound onto the wall and the murderer's clothing; he would have to burn it as soon as his grisly job was done. With a final stab, he drove the wicked blade home; deep into his chest cavity. The lumbering man, silenced for eternity, slowly slid to the floor against the wall; the look of deathly horror ever imprinted upon his features.

                With a smug look of fulfillment, the slayer turned from his latest job and quickly escaped from the asylum into the night. He did not know that one Irish inmate had seen the whole spectacle…


	7. Chapter Six

**~*Chapter Six*~**

****

                The morning had begun silently enough; the wind blew through Quatre's open window as he arose and began to get ready, his spirits still a bit low from his encounter with Mueller yesterday.  He was worried that the lumbering man had done something even more atrocious to the young Irishman. He slipped on his trousers and a waistcoat; but as he was straightening his unruly blond hair into something more respectable, a blood-curdling scream made his blood run cold. Fearing the worst, he threw aside all other thoughts and rushed with abandon down to where the shriek had originated. He stopped in his footsteps as he took on the gruesome sight; and felt as though he might wretch from the sight.

Lying in the center of the room upon a couch soaked of her own crimson blood was the ashen body of Dorothy Catalonia, her face forever contorted into a ghastly expression of horrified silence. Her neck had been carefully yet wickedly slashed from ear to ear, the last smile that would ever appear upon her. Catherine had stepped back and fallen onto a nearby chair, fainted from the shock of viewing her sister so brutally murdered.

                Merian stepped up to Quatre, obviously shaken; the tears were evident on her dark ebony eyes. "Wufei went to go find the police…the door to the asylum was swinging wide open this morning…we fear the murderer may have gotten to one of the patients as well…the smell of blood not only is evident in here…"

                Quatre nodded quickly, regaining some of his lost senses, handed Merian a small vial. "Here, these are smelling salts. Use them when the police come and take Miss Catalonia's body. I don't want Catherine to go through the same thing she had to again. It will only further her fear and might even put her mind off kilter. When the police get here, tell them that I am in the asylum checking on the patients. I will answer them any questions that I can."

                Merian nodded and slipped the small vial into her dress pocket, then went over and sat upon a couch, still trembling. Quatre hoped that they would be all right; Mueller had not been seen all morning and most likely wouldn't do much to calm them either. Gingerly, the doctor stepped through the doorway, light sweeping in from the poorhouse. Quatre saw at once the red stained water at his feet, and took a breath, already smelling the bitter stench of blood in the heavy air. The patients wailed at him as he past like banshees, their haunting cries chilling him to the bone. He cautiously turned the corner and drew back in absolute repulsion.  Directly in front of him, leaning against the blood-covered wall, was the cruelly mutilated body of what used to be Mueller. His entire throat was cut open, and a dagger had been driven deep into his chest cavity. His clothing, or rather, what remained of it, was slashed at random yet precise intervals; the blood no longer seeped from the horrendous wounds. His face was agape with horror, just as Dorothy's had been, and his mouth was covered in his own blood. And by judging the gaping hole in the man's neck, it was obvious even from where Quatre was standing that his vocal cods had been ripped out, a strangely appropriate death for one who had endlessly jeered and mocked at those he considered below him. The doctor approached the body carefully, his heart pumping swiftly. He nearly jumped when he got to Duo's cell and saw the Irishman standing unbelievingly close to the bars, his eyes staring down at the body. Then, as Quatre stopped at the door, Duo quickly reverted his gaze to face the one he had grown to admire with strange caution and understanding.

                "It's even worse than before…" Quatre muttered, horrified beyond belief. He looked over to Duo, who merely smiled strangely. 

                "Yer one of us…aren't ye?" came the calm, almost amazed reply. Quatre looked at the Irishman with curiosity and confusion, sincerely not understanding where the young man was coming from. He turned to face him completely, and laid his gentle hands upon Duo's.

                "What do you mean, Duo?"

                Duo shook his head, then glanced down at the cold body of his former tormentor. "I bore witness to the act that ensued down here last night…the way blood flew…how Mueller's severed vocal cords flew from his mutilator's blade against my candle…I saw everything…"

                Quatre's eyes lit up. "You did? Well, don't keep it inside! Do tell me who it was!"

                A sad gleam wafted through the cobalt eyes for a few moments, but as he was about to speak, two pairs of footfalls echoed through the tiny corridor, and the two investigators from before, Heero Yuy and Trowa Barton, rounded the corner curtly, obviously meaning business. Neither flinched from the grisly sight of Mueller's maimed corpse; but went right to work in extracting clues from the site. White the taller one worked, the shorter, dark haired one approached Quatre and laid a firm hand on his shoulder.

                "Excuse me, sir, but do you have any information on this man," he began, gesturing to the remains of the former keeper, "that might be helpful in our investigation?"

                Quatre thought for a moment, trying to think of anything that might be useful. "Well, I do know about the ways he treated the people under his care, including those in this poor excuse for an asylum. The patients were beaten fiercely, and all those in this institution were horridly undermined. He especially went to horrid extremes in thrashing this young man here," Quatre said, motioning towards Duo. "I've had to heal his wounds on more than one occasion; both mental and physical."

                The inquisitor nodded, taking mental note of this. "Alright, sir. Thank you very much. Your aid in this investigation is greatly appreciated."

                Long after the two police had left with the bodies of the slain, Quatre remained in the asylum, conversing with an oddly quiet Duo. He spoke from time to time; but there seemed to be something that was terribly bothering him; as though something had taken a fierce grip on his heart and wouldn't let him be.

                "Duo...you've been extremely quiet…are you sure nothing is bothering you?" the doctor finally inquired; the night was coming on, and he would have to go bed down soon. He ran a hand in over Duo's hand, and finally looked up to face the doctor; sincere fright in his eyes.

                "I have this feeling of awful dread…the murderer…he will be coming back tonight…"

                "Let's just hope not; the police will be back tomorrow for more questioning, maybe he won't come back tonight."

                "No…" Duo said gravely, "I fear that I will be next…"


	8. Chapter Seven

**~*Chapter Seven*~**

                Quatre; after bidding the edgy Irishman a fond good night with a gentle kiss and a warm smile, headed up through the poorhouse and up to his room, closing the door tightly behind him. He too, also feared for his and the others' lives; what if the murderer was to come back in the middle of the night with his ragged dagger of bloody vengeance. The doctor shook his head and sat upon his bed, not really feeling tired just yet, and let his nimble mind wander. The sun had long gone down under the city's jagged horizon, and now the stars were out, visible through the fogged mirror in his room. He ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts strangely settling on Duo's words that had been spoken previously. 

                "One of us?" Quatre asked aloud. "What on Earth had he meant by "One of us"?" He wondered also why the Irishman had been so strangely edgy that afternoon; it was as though the murderer had been standing right behind Quatre, or like Quatre himself was the murderer. The doctor inadvertently chuckled at the thought; he was no ruthless murderer that lusted for the scent and sight of blood. And yet, he couldn't shake the horrid sights of the mutilated bodies that he had seen from his thoughts; as though the atrocious deeds had been forever imprinted in his mind. And yet, the sights had not even bothered him that much; as though he had been desensitized by the whole affair. That bothered him more than anything else. 

                The night wore on, and Quatre simply couldn't find his fatigue. The police would be there in a few hours for questioning, and then the killer would be revealed; and perhaps this whole affair would be over. Duo would tell who was behind this bloodbath; and it would all be over for he who had dared to trail Quatre.

                A chill ran up the doctor's back at this thought; and he turned quickly, sensing a danger around him. The window was closed as was his door, and there was no way the slayer was able to get in. But he still couldn't shake the sensation that he was close…very very close.  But it would all be over soon; he could rest easy in the fact of that.

                _"Don't let it happen…it will be all over for you if you do…kill the Irishman before he lets out the secret…" _came a soft thought, wafting through the doctor's mind. Quatre blinked and shook his head; he had hoped that it wouldn't come to this. He clutched his head in fear, lowering his gaze.

                "No…not tonight…please, God, don't let it happen tonight!" He felt the pounding headaches inside his brain; the heat pulsated all over him. The sensation always was the same; painful and slow. "I can't! No more, no more murdering, no more blood on my hands!" He cried out in agony as the searing pain split through his skull; causing him to see red. Ever since Zechs had taunted him with such jealousy and spite all those years ago, Quatre had vowed a secret vengeance…sadly though, what began as a small murder became an obsession, a want of blood and a thirst for the kill that was never satisfied. He had become two persons, neither having a complete memory between the two. He had killed men, women, and children even! And now it had come to this; a last fight for the complete control over the doctor's mind. The urges never lasted for long, but it was always the shorter ones that were more violent; lustier for blood. But this time, he prayed that he might be strong enough to rid himself of his inner torment once and for all. He had kept up his charade well; for this he was proud.  However, even as he fought, he knew it was a futile effort. He screamed out again in insane agony as scenes of his atrocious slayings flashed across his memory; running red with blood. This was the worst he had even experienced the pain; the sheer anguish of it all. He prayed that the pain might kill him before he might kill again, but to no avail.

                He fell to the floor, clutching his head and stomach, crying out to God for redemption, and then his calls were silenced as he collapsed to the floor, heaving heavy breaths; the sweat dripping from his brow. Slowly, he regained his breath, staggering to his feet. His eyes had lost their caring luster; replaced with a dull gleam of malice that is was like a demon had taken over his mind. Slowly, he strode over to his dresser, opening his small satchel and began to spread things across his dresser, choosing an appropriate death weapon for his latest kill. He sifted through his medical supplies, finally removing a sharp, long scalpel and a few smaller blades, clean and gleaming of impending death. Silently, he hid the instruments within the folds of his rumpled waistcoat and stepped silently out of his room, closing the door silently behind him. He had one last thing to accomplish.


	9. Chapter Eight

**~*Chapter Eight*~**

****

                The stairwell was silent as Quatre, the blood lust evident in his usually calm eyes; it was a shame that it was all a façade. He could feel the cool metal through his thin waistcoat pockets; just waiting to be plunged eagerly into the heart of his next victim; the one that awaited him below…in the last candlelit cell. He guided himself down the rickety steps in the impenetrable darkness until he felt his foot hit the solid stone floor; he long ago had learned the different feels; the stairs were uneven and rugged under his feet, but the floor at the base of the stairs was smooth and flat. Quietly, he crept carefully past Catherine and the others, making sure to make not even the smallest sound; he had no time to waste on pointless kills. 

                As his hand reached for the rusty, grime covered doorknob that led to the asylum; he smiled morbidly, for he could smell the oncoming carnage with delight. He opened the door swiftly and quietly, smirking to himself as he remembered the oil he had deposited in the hinges the night before. Stepping inside the dank, narrow corridor, he quickly and efficiently closed the door behind him and grabbed the keys that hung upon the nail in the side of the wall. He treaded lightly through the dark puddles of water, his footsteps echoing slightly though the oddly quiet area. He turned the corner at the end of the first corridor and stopped, watching the light flicker from the Irishman's cell. He quietly jangled the key chain around his finger then slowly made his way forward, taking long, resolute strides. 

                As he stopped in front of the cell door, Duo looked up from the wet stone floor with a passive, blank look on his roguish face. He watched as the doctor unlocked the cell door and stepped in, closing it behind him with a resounding click. His cobalt eyes followed the British man carefully, then as Quatre turned to face him, Duo nodded in understanding.

                "I've been expecting you…I knew you would come for me sooner or later…"         

                Quatre chuckled a bit; overtones of wickedness in his voice. "So, you alone awaited death. I shall enjoy smelling the wonderful aroma of your blood upon my hands!" In a flash of silver, the scalpel was out, and Quatre lunged for the Irishman, rage in his eyes. In that moment of incomprehensible action, Duo felt his calm, unafraid façade fall, and he jumped back and cried out the doctor's name; although he knew it was in vain. He cried out in agony and threw his head back as he felt the searing, heated pain; the scalpel slipped forcefully through his bared neck and into his windpipe, his breath suddenly going short. He could feel the warm outpour of his own crimson blood flow from the gaping wound, and his eyes were wide with amazement. He felt blood rise up through his ruptured esophagus and leak into his mouth, but he was too stunned to react to the bitter, warm fluid. He was barely coherent enough to see the spattered flecks of his own blood in the doctor's fair hair and in his pallid face. 

                Quatre twisted the scalpel and ran one of the smaller blades in next to it, ripping into more of the warm, tender flesh. He could feel Duo's hands clasp wildly onto his shoulders, and he shrugged them off, turning his smoldering gaze up to look into the young man's tear filled eyes. As he felt the rush of Duo's warm lifeblood over his hands and saw it dripping onto his pale, trembling arms, the blood lust lifted, and Quatre, whose eyes had just been filled to the brim with hatred and malice, now gasped in horror at the cavernous wound that spread across his love's lower neck. His eyes caught the gleam of blood-covered steel, and immediately, realization, terrible, mournful realization struck the doctor's mind, and he sank along with his beloved to the floor. Duo saw the change in the doctor's demeanor, and a glitter in his eyes told the doctor that the change had been too late. 

                Sitting on his knees now, Quatre watched as Duo fell into his lap upon his back, the blood spattering across his trousers and the Irishman's long disheveled braid. The wound was lethal; the flesh inside his love's neck was horridly mutilated beyond recognition. The cobalt eyes had lost their luster, replaced with the glaze of Death's icy hand. But instead of a look of pure horror and fear, Duo looked up into the doctor's horrified eyes and groaned, barely able to breath. He smiled a bit and coughed, more blood spattered out from his severed throat. 

                "Oh…oh God…what have I done…please, tell me this is all a hell spawned dream…" Quatre whispered, brushing a few blood smeared bangs from Duo's deathly pale face. Duo simply looked up at him silently and opened his mouth lightly, taking in a final breath.

                "Quatre," his once smooth tenor rasped, "You are one of us…and…I love you…"

                The doctor felt the mangled young man in his arms fall limp, his face calmly smiling even as death gripped around his soul; even though blood soaked his body.  Quatre shook his head in disbelief; not wanting to accept the fact of what he had just done.  He was silent for a few as he nodded his head back and forth slowly, then suddenly let out a insane cry, a wail like that of a man gone over the edge to meet madness. He then felt the stinging tears, tears of guilt and of torture; flow down his face, and he bent over the dead, ashen body of his love and wept. He could feel the oncoming madness coming once again; but he welcomed it this time; he no longer had anything to stop his madness for…

****


	10. Epilogue - The Last Candlelit Cell

**~*Epilogue*~ - The Last Candlelit Cell**

****

                London had not changed much…that was very certain. And neither had the Londoners' atrocious ways of treating their insane. True, they were more humane than those in New York, but that wasn't saying much. Instead of dank corridors and tiny cells, there were experiments and doctors who tried inhumane tricks to try to cause mental illness to flee. 

                Down the long corridor of London's premier asylum, past the cells of screaming patients, there lies a cell, one at the far end of the corridor from which nothing but the flicker of candlelight. The patient had once been a kind and caring doctor; he had family and dear friends; he was a young doctor who had much promise in his future. He had traveled to New York City once; but something had happened to him while he was there; something that had devastated his mind beyond repair. No one knew what really happened, all they knew was that two police investigators, Heero Yuy and Trowa Barton, had found him screaming like a madman while holding the mutilated, bloodstained body of one Duo Maxwell. His name was Doctor Quatre Winner.

                Now, he sits in his cell, his arms chained to the stonewall behind him, making sure that he doesn't attack any passing nurses. He remains silent, staring straight ahead with a grim look on his face. Long dried blood cakes his fair hair and eyebrows, and is smeared all over his arms and legs.  His marine eyes have lost their shimmer; and he only thinks of the things that once kept him sane…and the one simple statement that will never leave him; always haunt him…

                _"Ye're one of us, aren't ye?"_

~*Owari*~


End file.
